


Butter, Sugar, Flour, Eggs

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Couch Cuddles, Food, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Soft Stucky Week 2016, Stucky - Freeform, Television, The Sky At Night, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, hamantaschen, kate bishop (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8975866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: "What was my grandma's name?" asked Bucky, apropos of nothing.





	

It was quiet for a Friday. Some scientists on the television were examining the continuing search for life on Mars. Bucky leaned into Steve's side on the sofa, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. It was one of those idle sorts of days where Bucky's mind worried over things more than usual.

"What was my grandma's name?" asked Bucky, apropos of nothing. He could tell he had that slightly pained expression he got when he tried to remember things that remained just past the veil of obscurity, no matter how hard he concentrated.

"Hmm?" Steve blinked. It took him a moment to catch up to the question. "Which one?"

"The one you met," clarified Bucky, "at least I think you met her."

Steve thought a moment before the answer came to him. Bucky wondered if Steve puzzled at the way Bucky would sometimes pluck questions out of the air like fine, invisible cobwebs that hung undusted in the ceiling corners of his tired mind. "Esther," said Steve, settling warm against him, the beginnings of a soft beard tickling against Bucky's neck. "Your mom's mom? Her name was Esther. Your mom invited me to dinner once when she was visiting. She overcooked the roast, but we didn't mind."

Bucky nodded. "That was a few months before she died," he said, resting his hand on Steve's leg with a light squeeze. "I think it was a stroke. She made the nicest hamantaschen, Steve. She called me... her little prince."

Bucky had always loved spending time with his grandmother when he was small: he remembered her sat at the kitchen table with his mother, drinking hot tea and speaking and arguing together in hushed tones and words he did not understand, but then, she would turn her attention to him, because it was time to bake.

She had always been so patient with him, telling him step by step everything she did, as he watched with rapt attention, balancing on tippy-toes to peek over the kitchen counter, until it was his turn. Under her guidance, he would carefully press circles out of the sheet of dough, then place a spoonful of jam into the centre of each - not too much, just enough. If a few stray spoonfuls of jam were mysteriously eaten in the process, his grandmother was kind enough to pretend not to notice.

"The boy's got a future as a baker," she told his mother.

"I'm sure he'd love the idea," his mother replied, "until he finds out how early bakers have to wake up in the morning to start the bread."

Bucky remembered how much smaller she had seemed only a few years later, when Steve met her. She was so frail by then, but smiled at the boys, turned to his mother, and said,

"Winnie, since when have I had two grandsons?"

"Grandma, this is my friend Steve," Bucky told her.

"Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," said Steve, with a shy smile.

"I like this one," she replied, clapping a hand softly on his shoulder. "I think we'll keep him. Welcome to the family, Steve."

After she died, Steve would take Bucky to the little neighbourhood bakery that made those little cookies - not quite as good as Grandma Esther's, but delicate and sweet and delicious in their own right. Bucky picked up the remote from where it had wedged itself between the sofa cushions, and paused the programme.

"That bakery we used to go to," he said, "Kate said she was pretty sure it's still there."

He had asked her about it in Los Angeles, when he learned she had lived in Brooklyn. He had thought about going back on his own, but back then, before Steve found him and they found their way home, the thought of trying to go back on his own, so tired and still confused, the prospect of so many landmarks that lived as signposts in his memory being gone, was overwhelming. Steve said nothing, but smiled that little smile that made Bucky's heart do backflips, and told him Steve was having ideas. Steve stood, taking Bucky by the hand.

"If we go now, we should be able to make it before sundown," he said. "I wonder if they'll remember us."

"Yeah, that sounds realistic," grinned Bucky, shrugging on his coat. "Come on, punk."

**Author's Note:**

> My official entry for Soft Stucky Week, the best week of the year. Come find me (and more softness) on [on tumblr!](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com/post/154852452221/this-has-been-so-many-months-in-the-works-that)
> 
> Features a slight reference to [Notes From A Dirty Attic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7410154/chapters/16831270), if you're curious.


End file.
